


Stack 'em up

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Series: Burden [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Sans' hashtag relatablity is off the charts, father(ish) child bonding, the frisk bias is real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8094523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: It’s not hard to recognize the look on their face. A sense of fascination for the unknown. A willingness to observe until they understand it.
Sans makes some observations of his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawnwards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnwards/gifts).



> I can’t begin to say how excited I am to come back to this story. Keep in mind that this is kind of a, uh, prequel/interquel/...thing? The timeframe of it should be coherent enough.
> 
> For a rising sun and a heavenly choir, with all of my love.

 

* * *

 

**It’s amazing how a little tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday.**

* * *

 

They watch every move he makes with a fixation that’s borderline hilarious.

And yet he remains poised, smile (usually just the product of permanency, rather than anything akin to genuine) fixed in place as he hefts one of several tools of the trade between his fingers, waiting for the opportune moment. Maybe some folks in the Underground would find it difficult to gauge the kid’s expression for this sort of thing. Sans isn’t most people.

But then, he doesn’t spend too much time thinking about why that is.

He just knows. Just like he knows every time he wakes up and takes in his bedroom ceiling. He knows, because the weight of his own bones gets heavier, every single time.

 

That’s then. Now?

Now, he knows the moment they blink. Hard to say if it’s a human thing or not, but the way the kid barely lets their eyes open would make him think they were just constantly tired- if he didn't know, without a second thought, that they weren’t. It’s habit or some unknown, hereditary factor that has them looking out at the world from underneath their lashes, but it’s not hard to recognize when they blink when he

 

Knows.

 

So they blink. For a fraction of a second, maybe two, and when their eyes open again, it’s just in time for him to wiggle his empty digits their way.

The careful manner in which they look up has his shoulders shaking briefly in silent laughter. Watching the way their lips part in wordless awe and consternation as number 29 rests proudly at the top of the pile o’ ‘dogs he’s been stacking on their head. First human to fall into the Underground in his lifetime, and the thing that gets them most is some hotdogs.

It’s their fourth stack in half an hour. Already got their pockets full, so every single one is, as he’s told them, on the house.

A detached part of him distantly observes that this may factor in as a good sign.

The rest of him is busy shaking his head when they motion for another, body language all too lazy as he lets his arms rest across the countertop, slouching into it in the same motion.

“Sorry, bucko. House rules.” Sans tells them. Thirty is a ridiculous number. He’d stack ‘em up that high if he could; and he can. But then he’d be left to watch as they all come tumbling down, in the exact moment the kid takes a single wrong step. One for every year he’s wasted.

Yeah. Thirty is a ridiculous number.

The bridge of their nose creases just the slightest. About as much of a protest as they’re gonna make, loud as a foghorn to all the parts of him that

 

Know.

 

“Gotta admire your tenacity, but the odds are _stacked_ against you, pal.” He tells them; listens to the words formulating through his magic, more than says so voluntarily. Couldn’t be more removed from the here and now if he tried, but their neck ain’t exactly snapping under the weight of that stack yet, and he isn’t about to let it, either.

No. The kid, and the ‘dogs. They all stay upright in an unerringly straight line, neither quite ready to topple. He’s only got control of one of them.

It’s not the one he wishes he did. Sometimes, if only vaguely, he thinks about the simpler questions in life. Wonders what it’s like, when those are the biggest source of your troubles.

And they want to know how he keeps stacking all those hotdogs.

“Howzabout you go for a walk; think on it a bit. The answer might fall into your lap.” The kid’s amazed by hot dogs, but they don’t even stare when bone moulds itself into a wink, taking it all at face value and the ease of _familiarity_ as they wiggle their shoulders, gracing him with a choice thumbs up. And off kid and tower do go, wobbling slowly across the platform lit from below by viciously hot magma. Vulcan seems pretty interested in watching the show, bouncing enthusiastically. Probably wants to help.

Kid never asks for it. They just walk, head high, expression blank. Step after careful step as the stack begins to obey the laws of gravity, just that little bit past his area of control until a dip in the surface in front of them sends the kid down on an angel, balance lost.

And the ‘dogs come tumbling down.

Sans watches them go, some bouncing, some flying; some hitting the ground and rolling straight off the edge, all thanks to the lack of equilibrium presented to them from one, small child. Too high up to hear the sizzle of impact with the red hot stuff down below, but he can imagine. Doesn’t take a genius to know they ain’t coming back. Which is fine, ‘cause he’s always got more. And hey.

 

Maybe he’ll even get to reuse those ones.

 

It’s pretty easy, like this. Simple to watch and simple to let be; kid takes a wrong step; the stack goes down. In the meantime, he slouches further into his lethargic posture, the rounded space that could constitute as a chin meeting the clothed back of his left radius, sockets slowly drifting closed as he takes things for what they are.

Out of his control.

Then those sockets open again for reasons beyond sight. There’s a sound, clear enough until it’s muffled by the fabric of a blue sweater, the upward curl of lips effectively hidden where crinkles around not quite closed eyes can’t be. Laughter, of course; a spontaneous reaction to outside stimuli that’s neither shocked nor achieved the unexpected for the source of the disturbance; just a level of entertainment brought out of a child invested in their game.

For a moment, just the one, he’s standing right there. Watching. Not because it’s something shocking, nor does it have any level of unexpected possibility to portray. It’s not about putting hope into it either; times like these make his bones feel heavier than ever, and the moment he’s sure he’s out of sight and out of mind, he’ll take to his bed until it feels like getting back up again isn’t some vague notion people refer to in ancient tombs. If he’s lucky, he might even catch up to them again.

S’about the best he’s got, lady.

They right themselves with one more step; out of the dip and back onto even ground. Kid’s got a long way left to go before they face down their greatest challenge yet; a long time, till they’ll be one of two deciding the fate of humans and monsters alike. Lots of dips in that road, too; potholes, broken tiles that haven’t been fixed. When their eyes are only ever open a fraction, it’s pretty hard to say when they’re gonna take their next fall. A deviation from what’s intended; an anomaly.

But the smile hasn’t left their expression by the time their arm falls, and they don’t seem inclined to take that road, just yet. Instead, they turn back to him with the age old gesture for one more, and he

 

Knows. 


End file.
